Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 180: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

170 ride Solomon. The desert stallion was herded with the stolen stock through the day and left severely alone after camp was made for the night. Then came the evening that the Don had approached and tendered friendly advances. They had been received coldly at first by the indifferent sorrel, but as they persisted he had become enraged and struck at the man. A cruel beating followed that left the silken coat criss-crossed with ridges and welts. This was not like the lashing the stallion had received at the hands of Worthington, whose punishment was al- ways tempered with kindness. The sensitive horse had felt that somehow it had hurt the man to-strike him. With the Don and his men it was different. They gloated over each stinging, cutting lash. The stallion’s defiance stirred a spirit of lust in these savage vacqueros, and they flogged him in a frenzy till the great horse dripped sweat and foam and swayed upon legs that were scarce able to support him. Then the Don had called off his men, lest they work the stallion a lasting hurt. The following day there was an attempt made to saddle the sorrel but as before the horse defied and fought his tormentors. Again the Don stood by while his men slashed the writhing flanks till the blood flowed from biting, cutting quirts. And as the Don stood taunting the suffering stallion there sprang up in the mind of the great desert horse a hate that grew with the hours and the days—that needed but the sight of the object of its consuming fire to cause it to break forth in utter savagery. The Don was a horseman, and he felt that this great brute hated him with every fiber of his being—that unless he were cautious the stallion might do him harm. In the days that followed Solomon was left to his own devices. No further at- tempt was made to saddle him. The Don was willing to wait. He realized that the stallion hated him, but he felt that with the passing days the great sorrel would forget. The Don even had visions of the. fleet desert king learning to regard him -with affection, perhaps love. Back upon the trail the dogged Worth- ington rode his dying horse. He had lost all count of time. His only thought was that he must push on, forward—that he must never stop. To stop meant death. His mind on the trail and: that alone, he Adventure failed to recognize familiar landmarks. Had he known he might have wondered, for the trail had led down into the coun- try over which Worthington had first trailed the desert king, when he still ran wild and free upon the ranges. But the man saw nothing of this. Only he realized that he had not drunk for long—that the cream pinto scarce moved beneath him. Then had come the slip and the fall at the washout, and the pinto had lain still, too weak to rise again. Miles of cruel country, without water and without food, had underminded the cream pinto’s strength. He had given his rider his best. He was done. Slowly Worthington drew his pistol from the holster at his side, and lying prone as he had fallen, sighted down the weaving barrel. Then the .45 roared and re- coiled in his hand. The cream pinto rolled over, kicked convulsively, and lay still. The man rose from the sand dazed, struck speechless with the calamity that had befallen him. He had felt the weak- ened efforts of the horse, but had not re- alized how near was complete collapse. Miles from food and water, afoot, his whole being hot and cold with awakening fever, there seemed little likelihood that he should ever reach the distant water-hole, much less that he should ever again lay eyes upon the desert stallion—his Solomon. Then into his befogged brain had crept the realization that he must go forward on foot, and that now there was greater need than ever for speed. If he were to overtake the fantom riders ahead he must hasten. It was evening, but the moon was full and would soon rise over the ridge on the left. The man slipped the saddle-bags from their fastenings, slung them across his shoulders and plodded forward. He would make better time later as it grew lighter, . but he must be moving. He did not dare to stop now. Then the moon rose clear, bright, and cold. The trail lay there before him, distinct as under the midday sun. On, on the man plodded, conscious only of the passing hours by his fast increasing thirst. He took no note of the country about him. His mind had ceased to think of anything but the never ending trail of horse tracks in the sand. ~~» Suddenly the earth opened before him. cCoOmiclboooks C@